Christmas Socks
by Beatrix Bloxam
Summary: A simple outing in pursuit of socks leads Dumbledore into a great deal of confusion involving Father Christmas.


Wizarding socks were, of all the world's socks, the most disappointing.

They rarely came in patterns, with stripy toes or padded heels. One would think, being wizarding socks, that there'd be an abundance of owl-covered socks, or perhaps ones with snitches or miniature broomsticks.

Alas, no. He had once found a pair with those very snitches, zipping madly about from toe to heel and back again. Upon placing the socks on his feet, however, he had found them pathetic excuses for socks, indeed. They were thin and uncomfortable, and whoever had charmed the snitches on had given them physical mass, and Dumbledore thus spent a very uncomfortable 20 minutes with his feet being tickled and bombarded by tiny golden snitches.

Muggle socks, on the other hand, were lovely. They came in every shape and colour one could imagine: black and red striped, polka-dot, adorned with owls and snakes and penguins, and even covered with little witches' hats. There were socks that barely reached the ankle, and knee-high socks, and plenty in between. There were socks with individual pockets for each of his toes, and socks with laces, and socks with obscenities written across them. (Dumbledore appreciated this last pair rather more than he should. They were for special occasions.)

Thus, the weekend before Christmas, Dumbledore was seen strolling through the Leaky Cauldron, passing up his usual mug of hot spiced chocolate, and exiting into Muggle London. The only place to find muggle socks, of course, was a muggle shop. Dumbledore knew the perfect one, and started off in that direction, humming an upbeat melody that sounded strangely like Greensleeves.

A light snow fell as he reached the shop some time later. With one hand, he absent-mindedly brushed the snow from his beard (which was, he had discovered the day before, rather whiter than he remembered it being), and pushed the shop door open with the other. The store, normally a rather cluttered maze of mismatched shelves and racks all hidden beneath hundreds of socks, was made even more unruly and crowded by a dozen customers, all sliding around each other and offering small apologies as they leaned and reached across each other.

Dumbledore merely smiled and closed the door behind him.

He had only been browsing the shelves nearest the door for a couple of minutes before a gasp drew his attention from the pink and purple marbled socks he was holding (fuzzy and warm, but perhaps not quite his colour). He looked up to find a redhead with emerald green eyes gaping at him in something approaching horror from the other side of the shelf.

'Professor!' she exclaimed, somewhat breathlessly.

'Miss Evans,' he returned with amusement. 'Purchasing yourself a little Christmas something?' he inquired, nodding toward the pair of socks clutched between her hands. She had, he observed, found the dullest pair of socks in the store: a pair of navy socks, with no stripes and no fuzzy creatures depicted. They didn't even look very warm.

'Oh, no,' Miss Evans replied, her cheeks red. 'These are a Christmas gift for my sister.' She glanced ruefully at the socks. 'She's a secretary,' she added.

'Ah,' Dumbledore replied, as if that explained it all.

'If I may ask,' the girl began, her cheeks growing still redder, 'what are you doing here, Professor?' She cocked her head, and despite her evident embarrassment, met his eyes with a determined gaze. He smiled.

'Unlike your considerate self, Miss Evans, I am purchasing a couple of little Christmas gifts for myself,' Dumbledore replied, glancing back at the socks still held in one hand. He replaced them on the shelf, then offered a sedate smile. 'Not my colour,' he explained. She laughed lightly.

'I'm just surprised to see you in–' she glanced around before adding, in an undertone, '–a muggle store.' Dumbledore nodded sagely.

'Ah, yes. Muggle socks are far superior, don't you think?' Miss Evans merely smiled, somewhat uncertainly. 'Well,' Dumbledore declared, smiling broadly, 'I shan't keep you from your shopping. Happy Christmas, Lily.' She smiled back, more brightly.

'Happy Christmas, Professor.' He watched as she maneuvered down the aisle, twisting around the other shoppers. He, in turn, looked back to the socks in front of him.

'Ah! Rainbows!' he declared with delight, pulling a pair from the bottom of the pile.

Some time later, Dumbledore was found seated on a park bench, digging through his purchases and admiring each in turn. New socks were always a delight; though they would later become worn, developing holes in the toes and heels, and ultimately be recycled as dust rags, there was still something very satisfying about brand new, pristine socks, just waiting to be worn. Especially ones with little smiley faces grinning up at him. He smiled back.

For the second time that day, a gasp drew him from his socks. With a little surprise (but not as much as one might imagine), he looked up. Standing before him was a small boy, perhaps six years of age, bundled in a snow parka, snow trousers, too large snow boots, mittens, and a brightly striped winter hat.

Dumbledore briefly observed that it was barely cold enough to snow. And even small boys, for all their ingenuity, rarely managed to get lost in frozen tundras while in the middle of London.

This particular little boy was standing a couple feet in front of Dumbledore, his mouth wide and his eyes even wider. Dumbledore was, for a moment, at a loss. He was surely a distinctive looking individual, but he had never induced such a response as this one.

A moment later, as the boy continued to stare, Dumbledore looked down in an attempt to understand the boy's shock. He had traded his black cape in for a more festive red one. His bag of socks sat beside him on the bench. He preferred to use his own bags for shopping, and was today using an equally festive red sack. He was wearing tall black boots, in case he found himself in an unusually tall snow bank. He didn't wear a hat, or a scarf, or mittens. And there was nothing particularly unusual about his face.

Well, except for his newly whitened beard.

Hm.

Dumbledore finally began to understand the boy's shock when said boy closed his mouth and turned away.

'Maggie! Maggie! Maggie! Maggie! MAGGIE! It's Father Christmas!'

'Oh dear,' Dumbledore murmured.

The boy turned back, beaming.

'Oh dear,' Dumbledore repeated.

The boy shifted from one foot to the other, wearing a grin that would probably leave his cheeks sore. He clapped his mittened hands in front of him, squeezing them as tightly as he could through the mittens, and swayed eagerly. Dumbledore sighed.

'Do, do, do you have gifts in your sack?' the boy asked delightedly, eyes shining.

'Erm,' Dumbledore replied. The boy bounced twice. Dumbledore reached into the sack, and pulled out a pair of socks. The boy looked puzzled, and took a step forward, trying to peer into the sack.

'Just socks?' he questioned.

'Erm, yes,' Dumbledore replied, before closing his eyes and sighing again. 'I'm afraid you're mistaken,' he continued, opening his eyes. The boy stopped swaying. 'I am not Father Christmas.' The grin began to slide. 'My name is Albus Dumbledore. I am a professor at a school.' The boy released his hands, and they fell back to dangle by his sides. The smile was gone. Dumbledore cleared his throat. 'But I thank you for the compliment. He's, erm, a lovely fellow, that Father Christmas.' There was an awkward silence. Dumbledore watched the boy. The boy stared at Dumbledore.

Then he let out a sob.

Dumbledore winced.

The boy sobbed again, and turned away. Dumbledore caught sight of fat tears running down the child's reddened cheeks, and winced again.

'That was not well handled, Albus,' he muttered to himself. The boy began to run away– a very difficult task in boots a size too large, a snow parka, and snow trousers. A moment later, he fell into the snow bank, still sobbing. Dumbledore winced a third time, watching as the boy desperately tried to right himself. He fell again.

Dumbledore sighed.

'It's Christmas. What's the harm?' he asked himself quietly, before setting his sack to one side and rising to his feet. In two steps, he was beside the boy. He barely hesitated before reaching under the child's arms and pulling him upright. He gently dusted snow from the boy's parka, and fished a small snow ball out from his jacket collar. A small patch sewn into the coat read 'Trevor.' Dumbledore smiled slightly, and rotated the child to face him. Tear tracks streaked the boy's face, and as Dumbledore watched, his eyes filled with another batch of tears.

'There, there,' Dumbledore said gently, fishing a handkerchief out from under his cloak and drying the child's face with it. 'Come sit down with me.' He took the boy's hand and gently led him back to the bench. The boy followed silently. Dumbledore lifted him onto the bench, and sat down beside him in a swirl of robes. 'Now. You must be Trevor.'

The boy stopped sniffing and gaped up at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore winked.

A small, hopeful smile crossed Trevor's face.

'How did you know that?' he whispered. Dumbledore smiled.

'You don't suppose Father Christmas _really_ tells everyone who he is, do you? Why, he'd never get anything done,' Dumbledore replied lightly. Trevor grinned.

'I knew it!' Dumbledore lifted a finger to his lips.

'Shh, it's a secret,' he whispered. Trevor clapped two mitten-clad hands over his mouth and nodded solemnly. 'So, Trevor, what tipped you off? Was it the cloak?' Dumbledore questioned, holding out his bright red cloak. Trevor nodded eagerly, hands still over his mouth. 'What about the boots?' Another nod. 'And the sack?' Dumbledore asked, holding up his bag of socks. Trevor nodded again. 'Ah,' Dumbledore replied sagely.

'And the beard!' Trevor exclaimed, removing his hands from his mouth. Dumbledore chuckled and raised his finger to his lips again. Trevor squeaked and clamped his mouth shut.

'Ah, yes, the beard,' Dumbledore replied. 'Well. You were very clever to recognize me, Trevor.' The boy beamed. Dumbledore glanced up to see a girl hurrying toward them from a long distance, a scarf streaming from one hand. 'Is that your sister?' he asked Trevor. The boy nodded. 'Maggie, isn't it?' Trevor nodded, mouth agape.

'How did you know that?' he asked in an impressed whisper. Dumbledore winked.

'Why, I'm Father Christmas. I know many things.' Trevor clapped his hands together.

'Do you have a gift for me?' he asked eagerly. Dumbledore hesitated, glancing at his bag of socks.

'Erm,' he stalled. Trevor's eager expression fell. Dumbledore scrambled desperately for some sort of gift. 'Well, Trevor, I'm out doing my shopping today,' he told the boy, making it sound like some sort of strange and exotic event. Trevor's eyes widened.

'Father Christmas goes shopping?' he asked breathlessly.

'Yes, he does,' Dumbledore replied seriously. 'Every day, I go out and purchase a particular item. Yesterday, I went out for cutlery. Today, I was out shopping for socks. That's why my sack is full of socks,' he explained, pulling out a pair. 'But, if you'd like, I can give you a very special pair. I know socks aren't very exciting for boys like yourself,' Dumbledore added with a shrug. Trevor shook his head, eyes wide in delight.

'No! I love socks!' he insisted, putting a hand on Dumbledore's arm. Dumbledore was charmed, and chuckled.

'Well, you are a clever young man. Socks are wonderful– they keep your feet warm, and they often have delightful images on them.' Dumbledore desperately fished in his pocket for his wand.

Trevor merely nodded, awed.

'What would you like on your socks? Don't tell me, Trevor; I shall guess,' Dumbledore declared grandiosely. He found his wand, and grasped it with a sweating palm. He used his other hand to quickly wipe his forehead before plunging it into his bag of socks. 'Do you watch the space ships when they get launched into space, Trevor?' he asked, hoping blindly for a positive response.

Trevor clapped his hands, eyes shining brightly at Dumbledore.

'Oh yes! They go VROOM!' he reenacted loudly, jumping off the bench. Dumbledore laughed aloud.

'Indeed they do!' As Trevor bounced and clapped his mittened hands, Dumbledore quickly murmured a spell and pushed his wand about in his pocket. Then, hoping he hadn't completely botched the spell, he reached into the sack and pulled out a pair of formerly black, pink and purple striped socks. They were now all black with tiny rockets firing and flying about, careening wildly around the ankles and erratically circling the toes. Several tiny planets hovered about the heels, imperceptibly rotating on tiny axes and orbiting an invisible sun. An occasional asteroid streaked by. Dumbledore sighed with relief.

'Then here you are, Trevor,' Dumbledore declared, more relieved than he could say. 'Socks with space ships on them, and a bit of space dust besides.' Trevor stepped forward to grasp the socks and stared, dumbfounded, at them for several moments. Dumbledore mentally applauded himself.

'Wow,' Trevor finally breathed, taking the socks from Dumbledore's grasp. He tore his gaze from the socks, and looked up at Dumbledore in awe. 'Thank you, Father Christmas! They're the best socks I've ever seen!' Dumbledore beamed. The boy hugged the socks to his chest, grinning, and gazed adoringly at Dumbledore for some minutes. Dumbledore merely smiled back.

After several minutes, however, Dumbledore was getting tired of smiling.

'Your sister will be looking for you, won't she?' he questioned. Trevor nodded eagerly. 'Well then, Trevor, you mustn't keep Maggie waiting and worrying. Happy Christmas.'

Trevor nodded and beamed and bounced before slowly backing away. 'Happy Christmas, Father Christmas!' He waved, still clutching the mittens to his chest with one hand, and finally scampered away, looking over his shoulder every few steps. Dumbledore waved back, smiling fondly.

As Trevor rejoined his sister, Dumbledore slumped back against the bench, releasing the death grip he'd had on his sack of socks.

'No more red cloaks in December,' he declared aloud, tugging gently on his own cloak. 'Nothing to be done about the beard, though. Ah, the dangers of growing old,' he added thoughtfully, stroking his beard. He sat for another moment before brushing some unseen dust off his legs. 'Well. I believe I have earned my hot spiced chocolate,' he asserted jollily, gathering his sack of socks and rising. He cast a final glance after Trevor, who was surely just then showing off his magical socks. Dumbledore chuckled and hurried away from the scene of the crime, before the older and undoubtedly wiser Maggie could demand an explanation. One's socks did not usually depict tiny universes in action. That was the one drawback of muggle socks, he supposed. They were really quite static.

Wizarding socks were not always so disappointing, after all.


End file.
